


Hairdo

by TheNoctambulist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Being an Idiot (Good Omens), Hair Braiding, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 09:21:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23848864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNoctambulist/pseuds/TheNoctambulist
Summary: Aziraphale loves Crowley. He braids his hair.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 78





	Hairdo

The one thing Aziraphale liked most of all, above sushi, crepes, and books, was Crowley. He knew this with all his angelic being, and did not think he would be changing his mind anytime soon.

This thought occurred to him early on a Sunday morning while he sat in silence, watching Crowley sleep. This would have been creepy, except for the fact that it was _Aziraphale_ doing the staring, and he wasn’t physically capable of doing anything creepy. 

Crowley looked so peaceful when he slept. Without his clothes and sunglasses in the way, Aziraphale could fully appreciate the graceful planes of Crowley’s form. His sharp nose, angular shoulders, pronounced jaw, chiseled cheekbones, bony hips, arched brows--Aziraphale loved it all. 

Crowley’s chest rose and fell slowly beneath the sheets, and Aziraphale could feel himself trying to breath in time with him. This proved difficult, as one of the odd powers of those asleep is very, _very_ slow breathing. Aziraphale found himself bored by this trivial, monotonous way to pass time. 

Crowley had grown his hair long again at Aziraphale’s insistence; it now was spread out behind him in dark amber waves. He was truly a sleeping beauty; Aziraphale resisted the urge to plant a kiss on his mouth. He would most certainly wake up, though Aziraphale doubted he would be as good tempered as a princess. 

Aziraphale tentatively reached out and touched Crowley’s hair. It was smooth and soft, with no snarls or tangles anywhere (despite Crowley having slept on it all night). Aziraphale suspected that with more light, it would shine like hellfire. 

Crowley shifted in his sleep and Aziraphale rapidly drew his hand back. To his surprise, Crowley reached out. 

“Mmmh…. Angel…” Crowley’s arms stretched blindly until they closed around Aziraphale. Gripping him tightly, Crowley pulled himself over until he was nestled in Aziraphale’s lap. 

Aziraphale froze for a few moments, the way one does when a pet crawls on a lap. Any sudden movements, and it might decide your lap is no longer a desirable location for its afternoon nap and find a spot of sun instead. 

Aziraphale slowly lowered his arms on top of Crowley; his left hand found a home on Crowley’s lower back and began tracing circles where it landed. His right hand buried itself in Crowley’s mane of butter-soft hair, sliding through it effortlessly. Crowley’s breathing steadied, deepening to the sleepy rhythm it had been carrying all night. 

Aziraphale found himself combing through Crowley’s fiery locks, twisting strands and letting them go in amusement. Somehow, Crowley didn’t wake up, or perhaps he had, but was content to remain in Aziraphale’s clutches. 

After a bit, Aziraphale began to braid rather than just twist. The strands now had a purpose, finding their way over and under each other to create what was going to be one large plait.

Aziraphale relished the feel of Crowley’s hair between his fingers. Each individual strand felt like water crashing over him, cool and clear and refreshing. It was so easy to braid; there were no knots to untangle, simply sheets of glorious hair that itched to be wound into something beautiful.

Aziraphale couldn’t remember where he learned how to braid; it was much like trying to remember learning how to read, or to talk. He’d been alive for six thousand years, after all. He knew he learned at some point, but didn’t know when exactly that point was. His fingers worked little miracles on Crowley’s head, eventually producing a French braid, running from the crown of Crowley’s head and down his spine. He tied it off with a sigh of satisfaction.

It was at this point that Crowley woke up. (In truth, Crowley had been awake for about half of the braiding process, but hadn’t said anything because he quite enjoyed the feel of Aziraphale’s hands running through his hair.)

“Morning, Angel,” he murmured. He reached back and tried to run his hand through his hair, but found he couldn’t.

“What in Satan’s name did you do to my hair?” His fingers swept down the braid, which started at the front of his head and went down to his upper back. 

“I braided it,” Aziraphale said. “Do you like it?”

“What do _you_ think? My hair feels like challah bread.”

Aziraphale’s hands, which had previously been clasped in celebration of his handiwork, fell. “You don’t like it.”

“It’s not that, Angel, it's just-” Crowley shook his head, braid swinging. The misplaced hairs tugged on different parts of his scalp. “I don’t think anyone has ever braided my hair before. Well, not all of it.”

Crowley had never thought he could pull off braids. They always seemed too complex. He was sure if he attempted them, he would muck it up. Occasionally, others would braid his hair. Mainly young children, eager to practice on someone other than siblings and overworked parents. 

“I think it suits you, Crowley,” Aziraphale commented. “It looks rather distinguished.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley said. He got out of bed and looked in the mirror. “I look like an artist who ran away from home and huffs paint for a living.” He examined himself from all angles. He supposed it wasn’t _too_ bad, all things considered. It just took some getting used to.

Crowley tried running a hand through his hair again; it was his go-to move to diffuse tension. He found his hand stuck. _This damned braid_.

Aziraphale giggled behind his hand. “I could undo it. If you wanted.”

Crowley scowled and turned. “No. Don’t you dare.”

“Whatever you want.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and hands in mock surrender. 

Crowley sauntered over to the bed and tossed himself against the pillows. His long arms found their way around Aziraphale’s neck and pulled him closer. Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s jaw. 

“I love it,” Crowley whispered into his angel’s neck, referring to the braid. “And I love _you_.” 

Aziraphale snuggled into Crowley’s thin frame, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. He fingered the end of Crowley’s braid, and then playfully gave it a tug. 

Crowley frowned. “Don’t get too cocky, Angel,” he said while smiling before collapsing on top of Aziraphale. 

A while later, Crowley had once again fallen into a slumber on top of Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale slowly stroked his back.

The midmorning sun filtered through the window, and Aziraphale sighed. He could live forever in this moment. 

After all, the one thing Aziraphale liked most of all, above sushi, crepes, and books, was Crowley. He knew this with all his angelic being, and did not think he would be changing his mind anytime soon.


End file.
